


dedication bordering on inhumane

by s1357



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-14 00:53:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18042344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s1357/pseuds/s1357
Summary: This practice in empathy is foreign, a weird taste in his mouth, but Luther finds he actually wants to comfort.Or, Luther reaching into his heart and giving six different pieces to six different people over the course of nineteen years.





	dedication bordering on inhumane

**Author's Note:**

> this is really just a study in me trying to empathize with luther. he's a dick but so is everybody else we give this guy a hard time

_2000_

Luther's halfway down the hall, heart set on a quick thousand push-ups and a hard nap with all the blinds closed, when he hears the sniffling. 

He's spent all morning throwing burglars through buildings and handing bags of jewels back to panicking mayors. A little unorganized, a little understaffed, and Luther makes quick work of them by himself. Dad's been sending him on more and more solo missions, claiming it's an advanced form of training to improve his leadership abilities. As far as Luther knows, no one else has been sent on their own. 

He's exhausted, shoulder tendons nearly torn and knees aching with every step. His wits haven't abandoned him, however, so the sound of someone crying is apparent. He stops, tilting his head to the side to try and find the source. 

Ben's room. 

Luther and Ben don't have much of a rapport; outside of fighting, the most the two really say to one another is “excuse me” or “hi.” He almost pivots on his heels and continues with his original plan, but he's never seen Ben with so much as wet eyes, emotional as he is. Sighing under his breath, Luther hesitates a moment before lightly tapping on Ben's door. 

“Number Six?”

The crying halts. Luther hears a few shuddering breaths before footsteps shuffle forward, and Ben pokes his head out. His face is red, most of the tears wiped furiously away. He's in shorts and an undershirt, the rest of his uniform lying in a bloody heap behind him. His hair is sweaty, sticking to his forehead. Luther makes a straining effort not to look at his stomach. 

“Yes?” He coughs wetly, trying to clear his hoarse throat, and Luther awkwardly shoves his hands into his pockets. He didn't think he'd get this far. 

“Are you...okay?” he starts, but the rest of the thought is cut short by a door opening downstairs. Dad's familiar gait starts their way, and Ben rubs his damp face before yanking Luther inside. Idle hands are the devil's workshop, Dad says, and Luther usually agrees. This time, he'd rather avoid the lecture. 

They listen as he walks past, both breathing out in relief. Their eyes meet and they share a short, hysterical laugh. Luther's never shared a moment with Ben. He hasn't shared a moment with anyone in the Academy, actually. It's nice. 

When they get a hold of themselves, Ben perches on the edge of his bed and Luther walks a little closer. “Are you okay?” he asks again, more sure of himself this time. Ben gives him a perplexed look, which hurts Luther just a bit, before combing his hair back with his fingers and deflating in on himself. 

“Yes. No. I don't know,” he mumbles, hand not in his hair hovering over his belly. Luther dares a glance, spies the writhing and the wriggling and finds he isn't as nauseous as he thought he'd be. “I don't like it when he makes me kill animals.”

Luther suppresses a shudder. As intense and ruthless his own training can be, he can't imagine what Ben must be feeling as he tears a cow or a goat in two. This practice in empathy is foreign, a weird taste in his mouth, but Luther finds he actually wants to comfort Ben. Slowly, his strong hand rises in the air and settles on Ben's shoulder. His confused look only dramatizes, and Luther swallows his pride so he can sit next to him. 

“I'm sorry.” What a strange sentiment, but he finds it's true. He lets his thumb rub against Ben’s skin in circles, like he's seen Allison do when she holds someone's hand. Ben's apprehensive air fades slightly, and he leans into Luther's side. “I wish there was an easier way.” 

Ben says nothing to that, and they sit in silence for a few moments. Luther's worried he's said something wrong, until he looks down and sees Ben has fallen asleep on his shoulder. He must be dead to the world, his brain simply knocking him out to avoid thinking about what he's been made to do. 

Luther tells himself he'll stay a few minutes, then ease Ben under the covers and take off to his own bed. He falls asleep sitting up. His neck feels broken a few hours later, and Ben rubs the soreness out with his thumbs. 

_2001_

“Defense! Put up your defense, Diego! You're wide open!”

Growling, Diego ducks and rolls to Luther's left, throwing two knives in crossing directions to throw him off. Luther leaps over them, tearing towards Diego at full speed with his own fists held in front of his face. Diego ignores his advice and sends a controlled hand into his abdomen, knocking him backwards a few feet. It's an easy recovery, and Luther finally manages to land a punch and send Diego sprawling against the outside gate. 

He stays down for three seconds, and Luther pumps his fist in victory. Make that ten to eight; their daily duels serve more as an excuse for fun rather than training, but the rush of the competition makes it all the more interesting. Luther regulates his breathing before breaching the grass between them. One of Diego's eyes is closed, the other squinted, watching him warily. Luther sticks out a hand. 

Diego takes it, and Luther is a second too late to realize the fakeout. He can't throw Luther like a ragdoll, or punch a hole in his chest, but he can leap up onto his back and hold a jaded knife to his throat. Luther freezes, and Diego cackles merrily. 

“ _D-defense_ , Luther,” he taunts, only hopping off when three seconds have passed and Luther taps out. He starts to clean his short nails with the knife, grinning like the cat that got the canary. Or, the canary that got the cat, if their strength is taken into account. 

“You were down,” Luther says incredulously, touching the thin line pressed into his throat. He could probably smash Diego's spine in his hands if he truly felt threatened, but Diego saves his rage for the criminals, lately. Their fighting sessions are more to let off steam. 

Diego sinks to the ground against the fence slats, kicking his legs out and putting a hand behind his head. “Obviously, I wasn't,” he shrugs, eyes wandering off somewhere in the distance. “If that were r-real, you'd be d...dead. Nice job, Number One.”

Bitterness is common in Diego's voice, but this sounds suddenly distant and out of place. The teasing notes of five minutes ago vanish, and all Luther's left with is the troubled look on his face. Although Diego has never been one for coddling outside of Mom, Luther feels the urge come back to try and make his brother feel better. 

He sits next to Diego, making sure not to make physical contact. He shoots him a look, parts angry and parts interested. Luther clears his throat. “Is something wrong?” he asks, and Diego only seems to get angrier. 

“Hell, no,’’ he scoffs, arms crossing over his chest. He keeps his gaze on the sky, refusing to really acknowledge Luther's question. “Since when did you care about how I feel, muscles?”

Luther sighs, but makes no move to leave. They must be sitting out there for twenty minutes, Diego fuming for unknown reasons and Luther forcing himself to be patient. He wants himself to care. 

Eventually, Diego groans, rubbing his face tiredly and shifting his body to face Luther. Still angry, but unsure, now, as if trying to find words to say that won't break his hard exterior. A bird lands on the fence a few feet behind Luther, and Diego watches. 

“I don’t know, m-man,” he says, scratching the bare skin he likes to pretend is scruffy. “I keep getting this f-fucking _thing_ during missions. I lose my shit like something's actually going to happen to us. What's up with that?”

After a pause, Diego finally manages to look Luther in the face, and anger gives way to questioning. He's really asking for help. Luther thinks for a moment, then offers Diego a small smile. He hopes it's reassuring, but Diego winces. “Maybe you're just, you know…” He swallows, teetering on the edge of offending him and breaking the already fragile connection they've built. “Maybe you just don't want to die, Diego.”

Using his name is a tender move, and it throws Diego's game off. Instead of lashing out, he simply cocks his head to the side, watching Luther as he turns his own head to look at the clouds. He wants to give Diego the space he needs to process, so he doesn't talk while Diego's eyes stay trained on him. 

Something touches Luther's hand on the ground, and he looks over in surprise to see Diego's on his. Quickly, he squeezes his fingers, and Luther responds in kind. “I think you're projecting,” he laughs harshly, but the upturn of his lips is real and calm. He stands, letting his grip linger on Luther's knuckles before dropping them. “Thanks, Luther. Guess I g-gotta talk to Number Four.”

He turns to go, and Luther blurts out, “You can talk to me.”

Diego stops, eyebrows raised curiously. Luther hadn't planned on saying that, but it's out now and he stubbornly holds Diego there with his look. Finally, Diego shrugs, sagging back to the ground and elbowing Luther, hard. “You're not exactly Ask Abby,” he snorts, but he sits. He stays. 

They talk, haltingly and nervously, and their hands stay on top of each other's. 

_2002_

Luther's in the middle of stitching a particularly shallow cut in his arm, not wanting to unplug Mom to help with something so trivial, when Five pops in and blocks his view of the mirror. The wound's tucked in a weird place, where he has to bend his arm and use the reflection to see the whole thing. Now all he sees is his annoying brother and half a thread stuck in his skin. 

“You're in my way,” he points out, peering to the left of him and trying to continue. Five doesn't move, simply leaning to the side to block his view. Tightening his lips, Luther snaps the needle out and fixes Five with a stare. “What?”

Still not talking, Five furrows his brow and stares right back, as if Luther is supposed to know something. When the lack of recognition is apparent on his face, Five throws his hands up in the air in exasperation. “I just traveled ten minutes into the past!” he exclaims, waving his arms for emphasis. “I traveled back in time, no one noticed, and Father's full of shit.”

Blinking, Luther runs the sentence through his head and squints his eyes. “I thought that was impossible,” he finally says. 

Five rolls his eyes, shrugging out of his uniform jacket and whipping out a notepad from within. “It's all calculations,” he explains, flipping through pages and not bothering to show Luther. “Father never tried, or he isn't smart enough to understand. I've been ready for this. The only thing that's been stopping me is him. Not anymore.”

An uneasy feeling rolls deep in Luther's stomach, and he turns to lean against the sink. “You're obviously smart, Five,” he coughs, wavering at the nonplussed look on his face, “but it's...I...I don't want you to get hurt. Shouldn't you just stick to training until you're sure?”

“I _am_ sure!” Five smacks his hand against the porcelain. “Did you not hear me? I just traveled ten minutes back in time! I know Allison's about to drop a glass on the floor downstairs, and we'll hear Mom squeaking her way over. She needs a good greasing.”

Luther opens his mouth to speak, but before he can say anything, a loud crash sounds from beneath the floor. They both look down, and sure enough, Luther can hear the steady creaks of Mom's joints. He's nearly at a loss for words, until he says, “That's incredible. What are you going to do?” 

It's Five's turn to blink, uncomprehending. “I hadn't thought about that yet,” he muses, fingers stroking his chin like an old man. “I suppose I should just go.”

“Wait,” Luther starts, but Five is already gone. The uneasiness becomes a panic, and he rips the door off its hinges in his effort to follow. He races down the steps, ignoring Grace's inquiries and shoving the front door open. 

He sees him, the back of his head and upturned collar and knobby knees that bend just a little forwards. That blue light surrounds him, and he turns around once to give Luther a smile. “Be right back!”

“Don't!” His voice is shot in worry, and it barely carries, but it doesn't matter. 

Five waves, runs forward, and disappears for seventeen years.

_2007_

They don't call each other by their numbers anymore, not even out of habit. They're Luther, Allison, Klaus, Diego, Vanya, and…

And…

It's pouring rain. With nothing to bury, the funeral had been pathetic at best, heart-wrenching at worst. Ben wouldn't have wanted a funeral anyway, Luther is semi-confident of that; he probably would've been content falling off the face of the earth with no fuss, no mess. He didn't get his wish, instead splattering himself all over his family. Luther is still picking bits of melted, bloody flesh out of his hair, and gagging every time. 

It's pouring rain, and Luther watches Klaus out the window. He sits on the porch, a kid's umbrella perched on his shoulder to mostly cover his head. He doesn't care about the wet, Luther knows. It's all for shielding the joint in his fingers, smelling like pot and other suspicious substances. 

Luther failed Five. He couldn't spit out his kindness fast enough, and he'd taken off five years ago with a sixth of his heart. He'd thought he'd helped Ben, who'd been smiling so much more and engaging with him in a variety of things: fighting, listening to records, reading. Luther was never a reader until Ben introduced him to science fiction, and now he clings to space stories with his life. 

He should've clung to Ben. Now, it's as if he can hear Ben hissing in his ear to _go comfort him, meathead_ , and he delicately pushes the doors open. He steps out into the rain, unfolding his own adult-sized umbrella and making his way to Klaus’ bench. Klaus looks up at him, a fleeting interest, before looking down at the pavement and taking a long hit. 

Luther takes it from him. He whines, reaching out for it but giving up much quicker than he usually would, instead folding in on himself and pretending Luther doesn't exist. Luther's fine with this; he sits next to Klaus, grimacing at the rain soaking into his jeans. The uniforms have been making less and less appearances. 

After a while, Luther puts an arm around Klaus’ shoulders. He's not sure where his boundaries are, regularly and especially on this hard day, even though he's usually the one to initiate contact. Luther keeps it casual, hovering over his shoulders and keeping his head forward. 

He can't fight the noise of surprise when Klaus immediately turns into him, curling up in his arms and letting out the saddest fucking cry Luther has ever heard. Klaus cries at movies, cries at good songs, cries when he gets shotgun, but never like this. Luther doesn't hesitate as he wraps his arms around Klaus, gently but firmly. Klaus used to have a weighted blanket, meant to ground him to channel spirits, but it only provided him with excellent input. Luther tries to recreate that. 

His shirt is soaked through when Klaus pulls back, eyes bloodshot with something other than sativa. “It's all my fault,” he croaks, eyeliner smeared in tracks down his face. “I should have been there, it should have been me, Luther.”

Luther holds on tighter, a hand in Klaus’ hair. Somehow, he can respond to Klaus’ body language and know what he needs. Is this empathy? Loving your siblings? “Don't ever say that again,” he says lowly, a comfort and a warning at the same time. Being Number One is hard to shake from your tone. “You couldn't have done anything. _We_ couldn't do anything. Ben wanted to stay with you, and Dad forced him to go. If it's anyone's fault, it's his.”

Blinking wetly, Klaus sniffles a few times before giving Luther a miserable smile. “I've never heard you blame that ass for anything,” he laughs, throwing his arms around Luther and burying his face in his shirt again. “Thank you. Ben says thank you.”

Luther doesn't acknowledge that. He just pets Klaus’ hair, letting him cry as he thinks about what their father has done to them, what Luther told Ben many, many years ago: 

“I wish there was an easier way.” 

_2009_

Allison's halfway through chopping her hair off when Luther walks in and yelps. She starts, swiveling around and sighing when she sees who it is. “Luther, Jesus,” she huffs, although her face betrays the wary behind the snark. “Heard of knocking?”

“What are you doing?” He looks to the carpet to see fat curls lying in a heap, and the left of Allison's head a good five inches shorter than the right. He tries to be cool. Luther wants nothing less than Allison to slam the door in his face and exclude him. 

She puts on a defensive face, peeking back in the mirror and continuing to snip. “Cutting my hair,” she says matter-of-factly. When no further response comes forth, Luther eases himself inside, shutting the door quietly. 

Not like he really has to. Diego is A.W.OL, Klaus is in his third rehab of the year, Vanya's playing mediocre violin in her mediocre apartment in a mediocre town. Ben is dead. Five is gone. The only person he has to keep silent from is Reginald, and even he is past the point of caring about the team. Only his Number One. 

“Can I help?” he asks, somewhat shyly. Allison always makes him feel too much, in a sickeningly good way. 

She hums, considering it, before nodding and holding out the shears. “Knock yourself out,” she says, straightening as Luther takes the scissors. “You can see the back better than I can.”

Luther eyes the pair of silver blades before carefully placing them down on the counter and reaching around Allison into her dresser drawer. After a moment, he pulls out hair clippers, snapping on the correct guard and chuckling as Allison jerks forwards. “What are _you_ doing?”

“Go big or go home, right?” The easy phrase is so unlike Luther that Allison giggles, fisting a clump of hair in her fingers and tugging on it.

“What the hell?” she finally agrees, taking the cord and plugging it into the wall. “Let's do it.”

They fall into a companionable silence, the only noise the steady buzz of the razor against her scalp. He's careful, leaving enough of the tiny brown-blonde curls on her scalp to leave her covered. Whenever he blows locks of hair off her neck, she laughs, scratching with chipped fake nails. Luther thinks she gets prettier and prettier the more her face is exposed, until he's done with the first go around. Outside of a few stragglers he needs to touch up, her hair is shorter than short and frames her heart-shaped face perfectly. 

“Wow.” She's speechless, running her hands all over and turning her head this way and that. Luther stares at the triangle of scruff on the nape of her neck, the way her eyes light up at every different angle. She stands, itchy and new, and hugs Luther tight. He has the urge to scratch all over, too, but he just holds her, and they sway to the music in their heads. 

When she pulls away, Luther sees the resolve on her face and feels fear. She lays a hand on his cheek, smiling reassuringly. “I'm going to be an actress.” She speaks softly, as if afraid the man downstairs will hear. “I'm moving to L.A. Different city, different me, different everything. I want to start my life over.”

The pain that causes Luther is mind-numbing. His arms fall to his sides, and he feels the features of a desperate little boy fall onto his face, but he can't help it. “When?” he asks, instead of _Why?_

“Tomorrow.” Allison voices cracks, betraying her brave face, and she points to the corner of her mirror shrouded in magazine pictures and stickers. Buried between a model's portrait and a reminder in marker is a plane ticket. Once he sees it, he can't believe he missed it. “I have to, Luther. I really want you to understand.”

Luther has no idea how to read Allison. It's been that way their entire lives, him always one step away while she skips them two at a time. It's part of what draws him to her, the unpredictability, the level of personality. It's what made him walk into her bedroom and shave her head. She's electric. 

What he manages to read now is the need for reassurance. She doesn't need it because he's Number One. She needs it because he's Luther, and she loves him. 

“They'll be lucky to have you,” he whispers back, not for stealth, but to hide the tears crawling up his throat. Allison lets out a sob and leans into Luther, and he holds very, very still, so he can memorize her heartbeat, her breath, her melancholy. 

All he can do is tell her it's okay, even if he thinks it isn't. So he does. 

He is alone in this giant house. 

_2019_

It's quiet, a jarring difference from the chaos moments before. Luther's head hurts, aches like he’s been axed in the brain and is lying there with the steel still inside. He struggles to stand, opening his eyes against the dark and the dust. When he rears up on his feet, aching already from the upper-body weight he has to carry, the first thing he sees is the white tuxedo. 

More specifically, the woman inside. Vanya lies on the floor of this realm in space and time. Nobody else is around them. She appears to be dead, lying on her back with her arms crossed over her chest, rubble all around her. 

Her eyes open: a startling blue. His heart races as he recalls the death, the destruction, the agony. He tried to leave her behind, he reflects, and yet here she lies, watching him with a gaze nothing more than interested. Slowly, she sits, grunting as gravel slides off her back and her bones pop. Luther is armed with nothing but his fists, which seemed to fail him previously. He gets in a defensive stance, waiting to see what she'll do. 

She burst into tears. 

Caught off guard, Luther falters as Vanya curls into the fetal position, her frail body shaking as she nearly screams in her anguish. He wasn't expecting this at all. He'd locked her in a cage, for god's sake. He was waiting for an attack, for death. Instead, he watches his sister fall apart in front of him, the most powerful she's ever been. 

_She's my sister,_ he thinks, suddenly disgusted and humiliated with himself. _Oh, God. She's my sister._

Falling to his knees, Luther scoops the girl into his arms (the girl, because forget birthdays, Vanya is his little sister with straight bangs and baby cheeks and a clipboard in her hand, writing down his race times and cheering him on) and practically cradles her in his giant arms. Vanya disintegrates, clutching Luther's coat with her cold hands and repeating through sobs, “I'm sorry, Luther, I'm so sorry. Don't put me back there! Kill me instead, just kill me, please don't put me back. I didn't mean to hurt her. I didn't mean to hurt anyone.”

Luther doesn't even know he's joined her tears until he's practically weeping into her hair, rubbing her shoulders and kissing her face. “I'm the one who's sorry, Vanya,” he chokes, and the ridiculousness of their matched sorrow and his efforts at tenderness are too perfect for saving the world. “It isn't your fault, it's mine. I'm sorry. You deserved so much more.” 

In an unknown universe in an unknown timeline, two numbers who attempted murder on one another in the midst of Armageddon hold on tight, thirty years of hatred, competition, and death leaving in the form of hot tears. 

“I love you, Vanya,” Luther whispers, resolving to never let her go. “I'm sorry.”

This sentiment is no longer strange.

**Author's Note:**

> love comments!


End file.
